


all the things I deserve

by ninemoons42



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Not Actors, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless, shameless Evanstan porn, in which Chris owns a gym where he works on his boxing skills, and where Sebastian is really into MMA, and they meet and they fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the things I deserve

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [all the things I deserve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906795) by [Heidel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidel/pseuds/Heidel)



> Thanks to luninosity I have been carrying [THIS](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/99008120269/kryptaria-roane72-stellarbisexual) Sebastian Stan and [THIS](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/99350564869/thewinterjawline-rosebudwhite) Chris Evans around for at least a day now and - grr. argh. brain cells. gone. Those two photos might be very, very very NSFW because holy shit the bedroom eyes. Can those two take a day off or something. They're killing me so much.

He loses himself in the beauty and the sheer wordless glory of his body moving the way he's taught it, the way it naturally wants to go, and his fists land blows to ghost jaws. Adrenaline reels through him, screams in his skin, and he punches punches punches, until his shoulders ache, until he feels like he has to fall down, surrendering gratefully to the burn of the nonexistent battle and the inevitable crash of a good kind of tired.

Slowly, he comes to a full stop. He stands straight. His muscles scream at him with the lassitude of heavy exertion. He breathes, deeply. Silence and clarity. When he opens his eyes - he hadn't even realized he'd closed them - he's looking straight at the new guy, the one who kicks like he's dancing and who lifts weights like tomorrow will never come, and - 

The new guy's smirking at him. Slow, interested blink. Chris takes in the sloe-eyed tilt of his head, the mussed hair that must have come from the padded headgear. Enough clarity to follow a drop of sweat as it slides into the collar of the soaked shirt.

Chris tries on a smile. Something that's equal parts sweet and soft and full of edges. The new guy's been here for only a few weeks, hence the adjective, but Chris has watched him spar, has watched him give and receive vicious takedowns. Ferocious, that one is. Feral growls and pure deadly intent. Chris has heard the impact of a good throw even through the peace and haze of his own workout. 

His smile must succeed, because the new guy tilts his head some more, deftly excuses himself from the loose conglomeration of MMA talk. Loose-limbed slow deliberate tread.

Chris glances over his shoulder. Doors behind him. Locker rooms, showers, and - the door that leads upstairs. Upstairs, five flights, to the unfurnished loft. He has the key to that place. (He has the keys to his building. This is his home. This is the place where he hangs his hat.)

"Hi," the new guy says. Hand held out. Bruised knuckles. How hard does he hit? Chris ruthlessly quashes the urge to ask him to spar. Not today. Definitely soon. "Need help with those?" A brief, elegant motion.

Chris looks at his still-wrapped hands. Back to the new guy. "Yeah."

What a lie that is. The new guy knows that, because he smirks some more, starts advancing, and Chris laughs softly and gives ground. "This way," he says. Towards the door that opens onto a set of stairs.

He's keenly aware of the new guy following him. They head upwards, syncopated irregular rhythm of feet and breath and hands on the railings.

"You're Chris, right," and it's not a question. Just - going in. Straight into the takedown. 

"And you are?" Chris returns. He'll go down, all right. But names first.

"Sebastian."

Chris turns around then. Halfway up the last flight. As he reaches for Sebastian's shirt Sebastian crashes upwards into him. A biting kiss. First blood.

Sebastian groans, grabs, and his hands are hard around Chris's wrists and Chris pulls away to stare. Flushed. Deep breaths. 

"Yes?" Sebastian prompts. Kindly. Concern creeping into that sun-scorched voice. "Do you need a moment?"

"Yes," Chris says, and then he fists his hand into Sebastian's shirt. Drags him up the rest of the way. 

Sebastian laughs, low and dark, and hurries with him. 

Keys. Chris fumbles them through the door. He locks it and double-checks, triple-checks. 

When he looks at Sebastian again, he's grateful the door can prop him up: because Sebastian is most of the way to naked, and he's kneeling, and he's reaching up to the wraps still knotted around Chris's knuckles. Steady and patient unraveling, a soft hiss when one knot proves more recalcitrant than the rest, and then - a lopsided sharp-edged smile, when Chris's hands are freed.

Last chance to ask. The opening for a tap out. Chris says the words. "Only if you wanna."

"Oh, I've wanted you since I first came here," is the easy response. A kick to center mass. The attack direct. "Do you want to?"

Chris doesn't answer that. He strips instead. Has to smile at the interested quirk of Sebastian's eyebrow, once he's down to his sweat-slicked skin and his ink. Ideas imprinted into him, that Sebastian now follows, a thoughtful pout and skittering fingertips. 

"You believe pretty strongly in some of these things," Sebastian murmurs, "or you wouldn't have gone so far as to wear them."

Chris nods, once. Doesn't speak. No need to. Because Sebastian is smiling and reaching for his wrists again. Dragging him down. A drugging haze of kisses, open-mouthed, slow. Sebastian steals his breath over and over again. Wandering hands. Chris shivers and bows into Sebastian's touch, the weight of his palms.

Drowning in sensations. Sebastian's arms, the startlingly fine bones in his wrists. Chris finally pulls himself away from that wicked marauding mouth and he spots the hammering pulse in Sebastian's throat. He goes for it. Sucks hard. He wants to mark Sebastian. It must feel good, because Sebastian keens, says his name, pulls him closer. Blunt fingernails dragging carefully down his sides. Splinter-shock of overwhelming stimulation. Chris is dizzy with how hard he is, how needy, Sebastian's shivering breaths. 

"Floor?" Somehow Chris still has enough brain cells left to ask. 

"Bed," Sebastian says.

Reluctantly Chris pulls away. A vicious bruise on Sebastian's skin. Blooming imprint on his throat. As Chris watches, Sebastian touches it, unerring, and the smile he gets has teeth in it and sharp desire. "Hope I tasted good."

"You did," Chris says.

"More?"

That's all the encouragement he needs. He points to the bed. It's not that far away. Sebastian against the rumpled sheets, one hand out, inviting, and Chris dives back in. He finds the right angle, aligns their hips, and Sebastian shivers and pushes up. Chris works a hand between the two of them. The head of Sebastian's cock is already slick. Chris nips at Sebastian's throat, and up towards his ear. "Whatever you want."

"Have me." Breathless moan. "Fast, just for now. More later."

"Is that a promise?" Chris moves his hand in time with the question, and is rewarded with a stifled cry. Soft moans spilling into the scant space between them. He doesn't stop. The things he wants to do, the things he wants Sebastian to do, a gorgeous parade of images in his head. He understands going quickly, now, though. Better to take the edge off. He speeds up and Sebastian says his name, doesn't stop, and Chris watches him come, eyes wide open and blank with bliss.

Sebastian is even more beautiful, after: sweat in his hair, blown pupils, a mouth turned red with kisses and bites, and Chris licks soothingly at the bruise he'd left on him, until Sebastian stirs and says, "On your back, please."

Chris grins. "You sure you can order me about, when you're still shaking?" 

"I'm ordering you about because I want to do this." 

Bright kindling spark in Sebastian's eyes. Ghost-kisses over Chris's skin. Down, down - and Sebastian kisses the head of Chris's cock, closed-mouthed, nothing chaste about it. Chris slurs out an obscenity. Punch-drunk already.

Sebastian must know that, because there's a wicked spark in his eyes and he's leaning back in, he's taking Chris in. 

Chris unravels for him, too quickly - maybe he ought to be embarrassed, but then again maybe not. It's all he can do the enjoy the show - Sebastian's show - eager suction, demanding, far too good. 

He can't last - he's yanked to the precipice, too soon, and then Sebastian pulls off and his mouth is shiny and wet and obscene and _then_ he says, "Come on, Chris. Come for me."

Impossible to resist that.

Chris doesn't. 

He unravels, he falls, he submits. 

(He wakes up to Sebastian singing, softly - and he asks for permission before he gently snuffs out that song with a kiss.)


End file.
